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Do Not Perceive Me: A Collection
Do Not Perceive Me: A Collection
Do Not Perceive Me: A Collection
Ebook64 pages37 minutes

Do Not Perceive Me: A Collection

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A small collection of little things. Poems, paintings, pictures, and short stories. Check it out, if you would like.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 17, 2020
Do Not Perceive Me: A Collection

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    Book preview

    Do Not Perceive Me - Jacob McElligott

    Jake M

    Do Not Perceive Me

    A Collection

    First published by Lame Horse Publishing House 2020

    Copyright © 2020 by Jake M

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

    This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

    First edition

    This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

    Find out more at reedsy.com

    Contents

    Wind On the Quay

    The Way Home

    Grass

    What you think

    Firebird

    On Darker Wings

    Cry Wolf

    EnD

    The Mantle

    Dark Truths

    A Bear In Central Park

    Snow Fox

    Sniper’s Turmoil

    Shepherd of the Damned

    Bear On Cliff

    Supersport Desmodue

    The Forgotten Isle

    A Short Walk

    Landfall

    Sniffing Daisies

    Lesala’s Restless Night

    The Sparrow

    Stinging Sands

    It’ll Help with the Smell

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    Wind On the Quay

    Here we sit upon the quay,

    With weary eyes we watch ships go by,

    Wondering to where they spirit our goods away,

    A breeze, so gentle as to go unnoticed, sets the boats to sway,

    With cries the gulls catch the wind on high,

    And clouds drift in to block the sun’s warm ray,

    On upturned faces water falls to stay,

    The wood of boats begins to sigh,

    A storm is coming to the bay,

    Knowing captains eye the cloudy grey,

    And mouth prayers silent to the sky,

    Hoping to rest the wind will lay,

    But hear the gale sweeping, nay,

    Feel it, for it is nigh,

    A hurricane is come by magic fae,

    The wind does seem to say,

    With voice bitter, wry,

    The ships won’t last the day,

    Ready the men to die.

    The Way Home

    Adrian shouldered his duffle bag as he walked away from the small airport desk. Gentle warm light shone through the sliding glass doors of the exit, which opened with a slight rattle as he approached. The air outside held a surprising chill, but it was fresh and clean.

    A little red two-door pickup idled in the fire lane ahead of him. Rust clustered like algae on the wheel-wells and there was a gun rack in the bed just behind the rear window. Two rifles were locked to the rack. There was a section for a third gun, but that one was empty.

    Adrian tossed his bag into the bed and went to the passenger door. It stuck a bit as he pulled the handle, but a little more effort and it swung open with a creak. Warm, dry air buffeted his face. It smelled like old car—a smell the man had not realized he had missed.

    This thing still runs? Adrian asked as he climbed into the passenger seat. His feet scattered a few loose bottles and cans

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